


Part 33: Frances

by oiuytrewq36



Series: Let's Hear It for the Boy [7]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26690299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oiuytrewq36/pseuds/oiuytrewq36
Summary: When we get over there, Sam is playing with the dials on a voltage regulator while Daphne watches in fascination. Quinn is lying on their back, smoking what I'm pretty sure is one of Brian's joints and staring, typically expressionless, at the paint-splattered ceiling."This is by far the weirdest party I've ever been invited to," I say, as I sit down, and Quinn laughs and hands me the joint. "Not a complaint; just thought I'd mention it."
Relationships: Brian Kinney/Justin Taylor (Queer as Folk)
Series: Let's Hear It for the Boy [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1928482
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	Part 33: Frances

Justin’s studio is full of packing materials today, wrapped paintings and rolled canvases and huge cardboard boxes taking up the entire wall opposite the windows. It’s also very disorganized, although that’s not really anything new. I nearly trip over three different poster tubes as he leads me over to the clear section of the floor where Sam, Quinn, and Daphne are sitting.

“How soon does the London gallery need these?” I say.

Justin weaves around the pieces of a disassembled easel. “Almost a month before Brian and I are flying there. It’s crazy.”

“Are they setting it up before you get there?”

He nods. “The curators are amazing, so I’m letting them hang everything in advance. I’ll probably change a few things when I get there, though.”

When we get over there, Sam is playing with the dials on a voltage regulator while Daphne watches in fascination. Quinn is lying on their back, smoking what I'm pretty sure is one of Brian's joints and staring, typically expressionless, at the paint-splattered ceiling.

"This is by far the weirdest party I've ever been invited to," I say, as I sit down, and Quinn laughs and hands me the joint. "Not a complaint; just thought I'd mention it."

Justin reaches for the joint, but Sam taps him on the shoulder. "Sorry," he says. "Only sober subjects at this establishment."

“Is this a party?” Daphne says. “Technically?”

“It’s an informal social gathering coordinated around an event,” Quinn says. “Specifically, around my husband giving his boss’s husband a slightly illicit tattoo.”

Justin snorts. “That’s one way to put it.”

I give the joint back to Quinn. “Like I said. Weird.”

“I just want to check the stencil with you,” Sam says, gesturing to a piece of tracing paper next to him, “and then we should be good to go.”

Justin nods and picks the paper up, holding it to the light. He smiles at Sam. “This is great!”

Sam beams back. Daphne just seems generally very cheerful. Quinn and I exchange an amused glance that can only be understood by ex-nihilist loners.

“So what is it?” Quinn says, gesturing to the drawing, a pile of spiky circles.

“Abstracted sunflowers,” Justin says, like that explains everything.

Sam starts to shave Justin’s left upper arm, and Daphne puts on some music on the ancient boom box in the corner of the studio. The three of us - her, me, and Quinn - start on a quest for the optimal level of stonedness while Sam works. We eventually get into a very intense discussion about where to find the best banana split in Manhattan after midnight, while Justin interjects the occasional “ow” over the hum of the tattoo gun. 

“This reminds me of when we went to get your nipple pierced,” Daphne says, presumably to Justin, although she’s gazing thoughtfully at a half-finished painting.

Sam, Quinn, and I all look at Justin. He laughs.

“This was in the early days of my self-discovery as a supertwink,” Justin says, and Daphne laughs. “I took it out eventually, decided it wasn’t really me.”

“You only got it for Brian anyway,” Daphne says, and he rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it.”

“I was seventeen and very stupid. What can I say?”

Quinn sits up. “Hold up. You were _seventeen_?”

Daphne grins. “Oh, time for this story.”

Justin sighs. “You all know I met Brian because he picked me up on Liberty Avenue in Pittsburgh, right?” he says.

“I didn’t, actually, but that figures,” Quinn says, grinning and twirling the joint.

“Well, I was there because I wanted to get laid, which was not the easiest thing to do at a Catholic private school.”

Sam and I wince in solidarity.

“So,” Justin says, a slightly dreamy look on his face, “I was this sheltered out-of-place rich kid, and Brian took me home, into his world, so of course I fell in love with him immediately.”

Sam snorts. “Bet that went over well.”

Daphne laughs. “It only took him three weeks to win Brian over.”

Justin shrugs the shoulder that doesn’t have a tattoo gun on it. “What can I say? People have a hard time saying no to me.”

“A love story worthy of a Lifetime movie,” I say, and he laughs. “Just don’t tell Brian.”

Brian comes in, clearly from a business dinner - the Versace pinstripe three-piece gives it away - just as Sam is shading the last petal-spike-thing. 

He stares at the group of us. “Do I want to know?”

Justin grins. “I was going to throw a rager in your office, but it would have been too much effort. How was the client?”

“Fine,” Brian says, still frowning at our little circle. “It’s weird that most of your friends are my senior staff, you know that?”

“Tell me about it,” I say, gesturing vaguely at nothing in particular from my position on the floor, and he grins. 

“I don’t suppose you have any of my weed left to share?”

Quinn snorts, handing him our current joint. “These two are lightweights, so I wouldn’t worry too much about that.”

Brian takes it and sits down, inhaling deeply. He breathes out a smooth elegant line of smoke, and I notice Justin staring at him with a familiar look of contented longing. Brian takes his hand the next time he yelps (Justin rolls his eyes but doesn’t let go) and doesn’t threaten Sam, thankfully - Quinn doesn’t tend to pull any punches when defending their loved ones - when he apologizes for the pressure.

“So,” Brian says, studying Justin’s arm with a soft fascination, “this’ll be healed for the opening in London?” 

Sam laughs. “That’s exactly what he asked. It should be, with proper aftercare,” - Brian doesn’t even make a bondage joke there, too engrossed in the lines of Justin’s painting on his skin - “and I think you have enough tattoos to know what the healing process is supposed to look like,” he finishes, looking at Justin, who nods, giving Brian a reassuring look.

Sam bandages Justin’s upper arm carefully when he finishes, giving him the standard rules about cleaning and moisturizing and all the surprisingly responsible things that we supposed rebels are actually very good at.

Justin and Brian disappear to the studio bathroom shortly afterward, ostensibly to wash off the leftover ink, although Justin looks very relaxed when he comes back, and the six of us end up playing a game of dirty Never Have I Ever (dirty for them, anyway; a lot of mine are things like “never have I ever been to Wisconsin,” which sends Brian into repeated hysterics.) We make our way down the stairs after an hour or two of that, and Justin makes us all dinner, frying batches of frozen dumplings on the space-age stove.

I’m just wondering why I hadn’t noticed until this moment that I’d finally found a family where I fit when Brian drains his whiskey glass and sets it down. “Anyone feel like taking this very strange party to the clubs?”

He and Justin look at each other, exchanging some understanding that the rest of us don’t have the knowledge to interpret. Then Daphne jumps up, saying something about finding a man who actually knows how to make an appletini (Justin huffs, WASP blood coming through for just a moment) and the others stand too, and I follow them to the coatrack.

Element is as glittery and loud as it’s been every other time they’ve taken me there, metropolitan regulars in thousand-dollar outfits mingling with tourists and the occasional straight bridal party - we give those ones a wide berth - under the lights and thumping bass. I watch the couples dancing, Sam and Quinn, Justin and Brian, the way they fit together, the kind of familiarity that can only come from years of companionship, and feel a vague distant envy, despite knowing from experience that romantic couplings make me miserable when I’m a part of them.

Then Daphne comes over and drags me out onto the dance floor. “You need to stop overthinking it,” she tells me, as she leads me to an open spot near our friends.

“Overthinking what?”

She laughs, raising her eyebrows the way she does when she can’t believe I’m not getting her point. “Participating in a social life,” she says. “All you have to do is make the first move once in a while.”

I smile - she’s right, which is annoying, but that’s not her problem - and take her other hand. “Okay, then. Feel like a dance?”

“That’s more like it,” she says, grinning, and I let the noise and the lights take over the spaces in my brain left by my departing loneliness.

**Author's Note:**

> Your obligatory PSA: Getting a tattoo outside of a licensed shop is only safe if you do your research and the person tattooing you takes appropriate safety precautions. I have a number of tattoos done in casual settings, including some that I stick-and-poked onto myself, so I can’t really advise against it - it’s a fun thing to do, if you’re into that kind of thing - but just make sure that there’s plenty of disinfectant involved. Also, for the love of God, don’t do it with a sewing needle and drawing ink. Legit equipment (for a hand-poked tattoo, anyway) isn’t that expensive, but infection treatments and laser removal definitely are.


End file.
